Mystery of the Desert Giant by Franklin W. Dixon Page A

about.”
    â€œThat’s funny—” Joe began. But suddenly the young detectives looked at each other. “Hardy—it must be Dad!” Frank exclaimed.
    â€œDo you mean Dad got us out of that scrape? Then he must be around here somewhere. He may be working on this Grafton mystery himself!”
    Thoughtfully Frank shook his head. “I doubt it. If he were, why would he want us out of the way? His other case may have brought him to Mexico.”
    â€œAnd we landed right in the middle of it!” finished Joe. “So what now?”
    â€œKeep on looking for Grafton,” his brother replied. “Dad’s all right, I’m sure.” Turning to the driver, the youth asked, “Where are you taking us?”
    â€œAlgodones.”
    â€œThen we’ll be back on the river and can have our boat fixed.”
    â€œYou are detectives—working with the police?” the man asked.
    â€œWe’re searching for an American who disappeared in Mexico,” Frank answered.
    â€œGo to the hotel on the main street and wait,” the driver advised. “I will have the police repair your boat and bring it to Algodones.”
    An hour later the brothers were purchasing some much-needed clothes in a small drygoods store in Algodones. Both bought sturdy dungaree trousers and short dungaree jackets to match. Frank added a bright bandanna, and each boy got a pair of the handsome high-heeled, hand-tooled, Mexican leather boots.
    Later, as they were about to register at the town’s main hotel, Frank had an idea. He not only spoke in Spanish, but he translated his name, when signing the guest book, as “Francisco Fuerte.”
    Quick-witted Joe Hardy signed as “José Fuerte.”
    â€œGood Spanish names.” The clerk smiled his approval.
    â€œYes.” Frank laughed. “May I look at your guest book, please? I wonder if two of our friends passed this way?”
    â€œWere your friends fishermen?” the clerk asked.
    â€œWell—not exactly,” Joe replied. “They were making the trip downriver by boat. They’re older than we are—men about forty years of age. Both are thin, but one is taller than the other and more athletic looking. Maybe he stopped here on his way back. Grafton is his name.”
    The attentive clerk shook his head. Meanwhile, Frank had checked the book without results and now stood plunged in thought.
    â€œOur friends may have stopped some place along the way,” he suggested to the clerk. “One of them is a lover of Shetland ponies. He could never pass a Shetland pony ranch, if he found one, without stopping there.”
    â€œThen perhaps he never came this far,” the smiling clerk remarked. “There’s a pony ranch just over the border—between Yuma, Arizona, and Andrade, California. The Miller Ranch.”
    â€œThanks.” Frank laughed. “Maybe we’ll have to pry him loose from there!”
    Alone in their room, Joe complimented his brother. “Nice work. That ranch may be a real lead. And if anybody snoops in that guest book, he won’t find the name Hardy—in English, at least.”
    After a hearty supper, the boys decided to telephone Chet. While Joe kept watch for possible eavesdroppers, Frank called Blythe from the restaurant’s telephone booth.
    â€œThought I should be hearing from you fellows,” boomed the hefty boy’s cheerful voice. “What’s up?”
    â€œWe’re on Grafton’s trail,” Frank reported.
    â€œSay, that’s great! What can I do?”
    â€œJust tell me one thing—have you seen Dad, or heard from him?”
    â€œNo. Everything’s quiet here. But say,” Chet went on enthusiastically, “you should see the nighttime pictures of the desert I’m getting!”
    â€œDon’t tell me you go out on the desert by yourself at night!” Frank teased.
    â€œI have a swell new friend who